Look at him.
He sings in the street like the world is his stage and
his life is an opera. Arms outstretched, head held high,
Pavarotti of the pedestrians.
It’s summertime and the living is easy.
Does he notice them laughing and shaking their heads?
Does her hear their cruel whispers? She does.
She clings to him, guiding him forward.
He turns to her. Have I told you lately that I love you?
They walk together through the ruins,
peering into rooms they cannot reach.
Touchstones crumble as they reminisce
in this, the house of the cosmic joker
who changed the rules and left him with
a thousand books he cannot read,
a million words he cannot write.
He paints instead, the colours of his mind,
the memories left behind,
and shouts across the vast North Sea,
look at me.